Fantasy Of Dead Romantics Poem by Alfred Maile

Can I ignore the brightness of her sparkle,
Will age ever be so heartless to wrinkle;
What a cruel calamity,
Such beauty should never toil in extremity.
O' sweet rose of Riversdale,
In which chapter shall our story have its tale,
Should it be the cause of magic or miracles,
Or the potions of witches and oracles,
To which trouble shall I ever have this pleasure.
Who could ever love you beyond this measure;
For my love is beyond the menace of fickle hearts,
Nor is it frail like the fragility of brittle parts.
I love you sweet May of valentines,
If this be lies;
Let it be the worst curse of times.